


death (and life) in the edda

by concertconfetti



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, Alternate Universe, Corpses, Gen, Geralt Likes Poetry and Pretty Faces, Geralt is Alive tho, Jaskier thinks Geralt is Dead, Jaskier's Family Doesn't Suck, Magic, Monsters, Near Death Experiences, Nobody is Dead, POV Alternating, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Poetry, Pre-Relationship, Presumed Dead, Ragnarok, References to Norse Religion & Lore, The World Ended and No One Really Notices, skaldic poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29403672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concertconfetti/pseuds/concertconfetti
Summary: Long is one fight, long is the next;few can bear three.A mournful monster’s call rings in the nightto urge the Witcher on.Departed Gods did bless his stepand curse his quiet lifeThe skald Jaskier stumbles across a corpse in the field, that of a Witcher, if his eyes don't mistake him. He's really quite beautiful; shame a monster got him in the end. Jaskier puts the corpse in a more dignified position and sets about writing the man a poem. It's the least he can do, really.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 137
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	death (and life) in the edda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brothebro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/gifts).



> Written for the Geraskier Reverse Big Bang, based on art by [brothebro.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro) The art is embedded below, but you should [check out the post on Bro's tumble,](https://brothebro.tumblr.com/post/643027451062157312/my-art-piece-for-the-geraskierreversebang-the) and, your know, reblog it!
> 
> Some notes: Geralt is (he/him) nonbinary in this piece, but it's not the focus, so I didn't tag it.

What, in Freya's name, was Jaskier supposed to do with the _corpse_ of a Witcher? At least, he was pretty sure it was a Witcher - their clans hadn't been seen in an age. Still, there weren't many warriors who dressed in all black these days. Jaskier poked around the man - dead though he may be - enough to take stock of his build, the too-sharp teeth in his clenched jaw, and the stink of… of _something_ foul staining his gambeson and lips. Perhaps a poison killed the man? Did he drink it willingly? Oh, perhaps the Witcher's love scorned him and he… he poisoned himself in order to avoid living without her! Or him, Jaskier supposed. He shook his head - speculation later. 

While he was a skald, Jaskier was fairly strong from working his father's fields and learning the basics of swordplay before leaving home. Still, the Witcher was heavy - perhaps the tales he'd heard of Witchers having bones of the finest metals. Or was it muscle of stone? That seemed less likely. Jaskier grunted and dragged the Witcher inches at a time toward one of the Yggdrasil stumps nearby, leaning the corpse up against the purple bark. 

As a corpse, at least, the Witcher was lovely. His snow-white hair tangled in the early spring grasses, stained with blood in places and matted with gore; his skin dulled to a sort of painting-perfect death pallor. Jaskier took a moment to arrange the witcher comfortably and clean off what gunk he could reach; the man deserved that much, at least, if he was to be Jaskier's muse. 

And oh, what a muse! Jaskier brushed a lock of the witcher's hair out of his face before sitting back on his heels and smiled.

"I am going to write you the _best_ poem," he said, his voice developing a fond quality as he folded the witcher's arms in his lap. Ensuring the corpse was comfortable. No one ever accused Jaskier of having much sense. (Intelligence? certainly, but the skald lacked the instincts that kept most folks safe and sane.) Satisfied, Jaskier pulled his lyre out from its hiding spot among the stump's long-dead roots and settled into a comfortable position on the flat of Yggdrasil's ancient branch. He fished a clasp of papers and a stick of graphite out of his bag and set about writing. 

"Long… long is the fight, long is the next," Jaskier murmured out loud as he scratched the words into his notes. 

Long is one fight, long is the next; 

few can bear three.

A mournful monster’s call rings in the night

to urge the Witcher on. 

Departed Gods did bless his step 

and curse his quiet life

Though divine is the sword in hand

good folk spurn the wielder. 

Still the white wolf wandered long-forsaken lands 

weight-carrier of the world’s sins

Long is one fight, long is the next;

how could one bear three? 

So came the Witcher, friendless, cold 

to Frayr’s fields 

With contract for fiends feral and fearless 

our silent, unseen protector.

The fiend loomed large, many horned, enraged….

Jaskier paused, only for a moment. He wasn’t sure exactly what had done his witcher in; fiend seemed generic enough a word, but specifics would draw audiences in and carry them through the story. Endear them to the witcher, Jaskier’s chosen hero. (And he was a hero; of this Jaskier was certain. Folk liked to carry on about lustful and cruel witch-men who were as like to slay a monster as they were to kill you and yours, but that smacked of old tales of elves and dwarves and gnomes. Scary stories created out of ignorance.) 

Granted, Jaskier didn’t _know_ this man in the slightest, but he was dead. The Witcher could take it up with Jaskier when he passed (hopefully many, many years hence). 

The fiend loomed large, many horned, enraged

Claws raking against tilled soil.

Long was its roar, and loud the next,

Something is grabbing my ankle

_Something is grabbing my ankle_ . The tug grew more insistent and when Jaskier looked down he was met with glittering amber eyes. Jaskier screamed, toppling backward and away from… from the corpse. The very alive corpse. The very alive and _cackling_ corpse. 

"Wasn't a fiend," the corpse said in a rocky, low voice, one that would put dwarven voices to shame. Laughter tugged at the man's lips and the resulting smirk made his face seem all the more lively. Jaskier swallowed. 

"Then what, pray tell, killed you, my good man?" Jaskier asked, inwardly cursing the shake in his voice. 

"Not a man," the corpse - former corpse? - grumbled, "I wasn't dead, and it was a Vættir. So you're naught for three." That grin lit up the Witcher's face once more. "I'm Geralt - thanks for the poem." 

Jaskier blinked and watched Geralt attempt to get up and, consequently, collapse back against the tree stump. "You were saying?" The slacks quipped, smiling when a scowl grace the great Witcher's face. "Since you're not leaving just yet, and I seem to have gotten _everything_ wrong, why don't you tell me what happened?" 

* * *

A fucking vættir was eating the local lord's livestock. Just his luck. 

Geralt tracked the spirit to a gove, the trees trussed up with innards and blood, not unlike a butcher's back room. If the butcher had a morbid sense of humor. The vættir, itself, was… <i>sharper</i> than usual, almost as if it'd seen a leshy from down south and half-imitated the aesthetic. Its face was adorned with a cow skull, and its fingers ended in long talons; it dressed in swags of moss and rotting leaves. Geralt covered his nose in an attempt to mute the scent of rotting and drying meat to little effect. Best to take the creature out quickly and be done with the whole contract. 

That, of course, would be _too easy_ \- Geralt downed Moribor Forest and a Killer Whale to deal with the scent, but it wasn't enough. The vættir was fast and had its claws in Geralt's chest before he could get a solid hit on the creature; it hurled Geralt out toward the prairie behind them. Hurt like a bitch, but he managed to get himself back on his feet before the vættir could catch him unaware again - Igni, to catch the dry moss on fire, and a swift, hard stab to its chest knocked the spirit to the ground. 

Geralt heaved, blood oozing down his chest. Another potion will push him past his toxicity limits, but he needed to recover. He staked the vættir through the chest with his silver sword, downed Swallow, and he collapsed back on the heath, slipping into meditation as his blood began to burn.

The world lurched under Geralt's body, knocking him out of his meditative trance and forcing him to put all of his energy into appearing dead. It could be that the vættir wasn't quite as dead as he'd thought, or some other monster was taking advantage of his heavily injured state. Times like these, Geralt was thankful for his mutated physiology; divinely given or not, witcher mutations made it easier to appear dead until the opportunity arose to escape. Or kill the intruding creature. Either, in this case, would do, given the still healing gash in Geralt's stomach. 

It wasn't until he heard faint swearing that he realized a person was moving him. Interesting. The world lurched again and Geralt was settled against the wood of one of Yggdrasil's stumps. Whoever moved him hummed as they pressed a soft, damp cloth to Geralt's face, his hands, the wound in his abdomen, and other, smaller cuts he hadn't noticed in his haste to down Swallow and laid flat to meditate. He hated to admit it, but the attention felt nice - tender, caring, despite the fact that this person (human, by the touch and smell of him) likely thought he was dead. Geralt allowed his arms to be posed in his lap and waited. 

"I'm going to write you the _best_ poem," the human - a skald, then, or a noble with lofty expectations of himself - said before gently pushing the hair out of Geralt's face. Then, the skald moved, and Geralt thought for a brief moment he'd been left alone. Alas, he heard the skald set himself up onto the stump and begin murmuring to himself. 

Despite Geralt's need to move, to collect payment for the vættir, he found himself listening to the soft murmurations of this gentle poet. Not many would stumble upon a witcher and show them kindness, let alone the corpse of a witcher, and that piqued Geralt's curiosity. 

The poem… wasn't bad. Clearly a first draft, but nothing that wasn't salvageable with some work and time. 

Shame the poet had no idea what he was talking about regarding monsters. Fiends weren't native to this area, you had to travel much farther south for those. The skald muttered to himself for a while, dithering about descriptions that inched increasingly into the absurd, before Geralt couldn't take it anymore.He reached up and gently tugged the skald's ankle. The man screamed and threw himself away from Geralt in a move so ridiculous the witcher couldn't help the laugh that escaped his chest. 

* * *

Jaskier stared in rapt fascination at Geralt as he finished his tale nodding along until he realized… that was all the Witcher was willing to divulge. The skald frowned. 

"That's not nearly enough detail," Jaskier exclaimed, "what happened to the vættir? I didn't see a monster corpse." 

Geralt blinked. "Fuck," he swore. "Where are my swords?" Jaskier scrambled over the stump - he'd stashed the weapons and clan shield among the roots before investigating the Witcher's prone from in case he wasn't truly dead (which, to Jaskier's glee, he _hadn't_ been dead or violent in the end). Geralt followed his movement and snatched the silver sword before Jaskier could hand it to him. 

"Stay here," he ordered, and off he went. Jaskier waited in unbearable silence, broken only by an unholy scream; a flaming form burst out from the trees followed by a lumbering, angry-looking witcher. Geralt held out a hand and *something* knocked the vættir to the ground, pressing it into the earth. It squirmed, screaming in an ancient language until Geralt, unceremoniously, severed its head from its neck. 

Jaskier scrambled off his perch towards Geralt, driven by a curiosity stronger than his horror (and the urge to vomit), while Geralt wrapped the creature's head in a cloth. The Witcher quirked an eyebrow as Jaskier poked at the charred remains. 

"It spoke a language," Jaskier said, numbness creeping into his limbs. 

"It did," Geralt confirmed. "But it was harming the folk who live here; local lord hired me to find out what was killing their livestock, and this was the culprit. Still, I don't take killing a creature like this lightly." 

"Empathy, even for monsters. Witchers truly are noble beings," Jaskier said sagely. Geralt let out an undignified snort; he'd moved on to collecting various parts of the corpse. Jaskier frowned. 

"Noble might be pushing it." Geralt severed both vættir hands and pocketed them - there were elves would part with a good among of coin for the hands, eyes, and moss. (He wasn't going to bother with the eyes, though; the texture was disgusting and he was already teetering on the edge of losing what little food he still had in his stomach.) "Skalds are prone to lying, though," Geralt said absently, smirking to himself as a wheezing, offended noise escaped the skaldling. 

"I- how _dare_ \- I don't _lie_ ," Jaskier insisted, "I exaggerate. You just told me the truth and, honestly Geralt, it lacked in everything that makes a story great. Namely, pacing and tension. You could learn from me." 

Geralt hummed and stood, laden now with vættir parts and covered in ichor, and Jaskier was struck with an *excellent* idea. 

"Listen, you said the local lord hired you?" Jaskier asked; Geralt nodded. "The one in Brekka?" 

"What are you getting at, skald?" 

"Well, you didn't give me a chance to introduce myself," Jaskier said, adding a dramatic bow for effect, "my name is Jaskier, youngest son of Erik of Brekka. Allow me to come with you when you meet with my father again and I can sing your praises!" 

"My praises?" 

"Certainly! Father is generous and throws feasts at the drop of a hat, so I will use that opportunity to tell the town about your contract," Jaskier said, grinning and throwing his arms out. "Improve the perception of Witchers, maybe earn you some coin!" 

Geralt rolled his eyes, walking toward town without so much as a deep, half-growled "hmm." Jaskier scrambled after him, snatching his lyre from the Yggdrasil stump when Geralt stopped to grab his second sword and his clan shield. He'd prove his worth to this witcher, easy. 

* * *

The Skaldling hadn't lied - his father was the lord of Brekka, and he was indeed generous. THe lord paid him more gold than promised when Jaskier spoke of how Geralt "saved" him from the terror in their woods, provided Geralt with a hot bath, and threw a raucous feast in Geralt's honor. The Witcher sipped a warm mead at the end of one of Lord Erik's long, communal tables, rolling dice with some of the older men of the town while Jaskier flitted around, spinning traditional tales and dropping snippets of Geralt's "achievements," all of which were made up. 

But Geralt was pleasantly drunk and the hall was warm and Jaskier's praises seemed to ease any tension. Given Geralt was used to fear following him into the halls of men - fear that Erik of Brekka showed him mere hours ago - he could tolerate some… propaganda, for the moment. 

Still, it was best if he moved on. Geralt downed the rest of his mead and paid out his losses to his dice partner. The man shook his head. 

" 'Sall for fun, master Witcher," the elder dwarf said, his gold-brown skin glowing in the firelight. "Solved our forest spirit problem, you don't owe me." 

"Sure?" 

"Absolutely." 

Geralt nodded and collected his coin again, before quietly leaving the mead hall. Roach was at the stables near by, and perhaps he had enough to get her groomed while he sobered up. Not halfway through the stables, someone caught Geralt's arm. 

"You're just leaving then?" Jaskier asked. 

"That's… usually how it works, yes," Geralt said flatly. "Though I ought to thank you, skaldling; your embellishments did improve this evening." Jaskier grinned and oh, that stirred something warm in Geralt's chest. Perhaps he should have left earlier. 

"You're very welcome," Jaskier said, "perhaps… you'd consider letting me travel with you? I have so many questions about Witchers and, well, one doesn't get inspiration from their hometown for long."

Geralt considered. "It's dangerous, my Path," he said softly. "Not really a place for a skald." 

"I'll stay out of trouble, honest," Jaskier said and Geralt's expression softened. He'd regret this in the morning, certainly. 

"Fine," he growled and turned back toward the stables. Jaskier punched the air and trotted along behind Geralt, questions streaming out of him like a river. 

"Where do you live, usually? You mentioned you weren't a man? Perhaps you could elaborate on - " 

"Jaskier," Geralt snapped, "don't push it." 

"Right, right, of course, sorry my dear, I'll pace myself," Jaskier said in a rush, grinning like a wild thing. Perhaps Geralt would regret this decision later, but for now, he was happy to listen to the skald murmur and babble behind him as they walked through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> For once I titled this all by myself. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
